


all pale and panting

by natlet



Series: please do not let me go [4]
Category: Black Sails
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-05-18
Updated: 2016-05-20
Packaged: 2018-06-09 05:00:03
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 11,567
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6891193
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/natlet/pseuds/natlet
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Flint has a problem; Silver has a revelation.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> AS PER USUAL we are following directly on from [the last part](http://archiveofourown.org/works/6652846/chapters/15414925)  
> also as per usual [jackie](http://twobrokenwyngs.tumblr.com) was alpha/beta/everything

Flint avoids him for another three days. 

Hours stretching far longer than they should; six meals, nineteen changes in watch. Nearly twenty unbearable hours in his hammock, of which John sleeps perhaps four or five. To a certain extent, life on board the Walrus is predictable; John had long ago learned to keep time both by the sun, and by the particular rhythm of the ship, the crew's comings and goings, the daily tasks. Holystoning the decks in the mornings, mending ropes and sails by day, music to mark the setting of the sun, and on the third night after they'd taken the brig - sleepless in his hammock, trying not to remember Flint's hands on him, failing miserably - John realizes he has added Flint's pattern of movement around the ship to his own personal mental timepiece. 

He's kept the same schedule for days now - holds his position on the quarterdeck until halfway through the forenoon watch, spends the rest of it checking the guns, an hour in his cabin followed by three at the wheel. Down to the hold for the dog-watches, accompanied once by DeGroot, but otherwise alone; then back up as first watch heads into the rigging, to take a place near the bow. To a certain extent, he always has; John assumes it's a claw of the navy still in him, related to the lift of his chin, the way one hand cups smoothly and automatically into the other behind his back when he stands. And perhaps it's seemed a bit more focused these past few days than John can ever remember it being - but perhaps he's seeing things that aren't there, and anyway, sometimes he can still hear Billy in the back of his mind - _He's entitled to a mood._ So he lets it go. He watches Flint move about the ship, watches him carefully keep his distance, doesn't approach him - tries to trust Flint will come to him when he's ready, reminds himself that Flint always has before, that Flint seeks him out - tries to convince himself he certainly will this time, too. 

But tonight, the pattern has broken. Flint doesn't emerge with the first watch. It's probably nothing to be concerned about, John tries to tell himself, listening to most of the crew breathing slow and steady around him in sleep; he's found something in the hold that's occupied more time than usual, is all. A section of crates he's decided should be re-stacked, a sudden need to once again take inventory of their food stores. He's caught Flint at it before; another relic of the Admiralty, the twitch he gets in his shoulders when something's not arranged to his liking - John had become well acquainted with it in the days he'd spent in Flint's cabin after Charles Town, before he'd learned which of the functionally identical books Flint minded him touching, and which ones he didn't. 

That, he assumes, is what's got Flint occupied now; he's not back on deck yet because he's probably got half their cargo strewn around him in the hold, arranging and rearranging until he's satisfied with the balance, the distribution of weight. John shouldn't disturb him. He should leave him to it. He should leave him alone. 

He rolls from his hammock, instead. 

The ship is quiet, and John moves as gently as he can; picks his way across the deck, gets himself through the hatch, down the stairs, hoping only that he hasn't woken too many of the men with his passing. He spots Flint immediately, starts toward him; he's sat halfway down the long stretch of deck, his back against the step of the mainmast, both knees drawn up to his chest and head resting on one hand, and there's nothing - that odd about it, not really, but just the sight of him sends worry winding tight and choking around John's throat. 

Something's wrong. 

He looks fucking exhausted - and that's not it, that's nothing new, and perhaps it's only just now beginning to register in John's mind that that's something that should concern him, but - there's a slump to Flint's shoulders he's not sure he's ever seen before, a sort of surrender in the drape of his other hand across his knee. He doesn't look up as John approaches, but he rarely does; John nudges the toe of Flint's boot with the tip of his own, though, and Flint startles - and that, that _is_ odd. Hadn't Flint heard him coming?

Flint looks up to him, slowly, and as soon as he does John's breath catches - his eyes are faint and ringed and wet, skin flushed, breath coming in an odd choking pattern and John knows that, knows that look, knows the distance in Flint's gaze - he's sick. "How long have you been like this?" he says, and Flint blinks at him; too long, then.

"I'm fine," he says, low and a bit sluggish, and John wants to tell him he doesn't need to, but. "It's - quiet down here, I haven't been sleeping well, I thought I'd - " 

He doesn't bother finishing. He hasn't looked away, and John knows him well enough to recognize a plea when he sees one. 

"Let's get you back to your cabin," he says, and holds out a hand, and he's almost not surprised when Flint takes it. 

He isn't much help; letting Flint put a hand on his shoulder is about all he can offer, and they make their way slowly back toward the hatch, a strange three-legged creature braced between the decks above and below and each other. He can't imagine he's providing any necessary assistance, beyond perhaps suggesting it might be time for Flint to move - Flint holds tight to his shoulder, though, so. "We're a pair, aren't we?" he murmurs as they near the hatch, letting his leg thump against the deck more loudly than he needs to, and Flint rewards him with a short, huffed laugh. Flint doesn't stop John from coming into his cabin with him, which John, to be honest, isn't expecting; he shuts the door behind him, turns to find Flint headed for his desk. 

"You haven't been sleeping well?" John says, and Flint stops; some tiny, already-crazed part of John's mind wonders if he remembers he'd said it. 

"Just the past few nights." 

"I'm sorry," John says, soft - and it's a bit disingenuous, perhaps, it isn't like he'd done anything he feels he should be sorry for, but - he's sorry Flint is unwell, at the very least. 

Flint shakes his head, though, looks away. "It has nothing to do with you." 

He shouldn't - he knows he shouldn't, not now - but he is growing so, so tired of this. "Doesn't it? Have you been taking your rations? I haven't seen you at a meal in days." 

Flint laughs, low and humorless. "My difficulties with sleep predate your joining this crew, Mister Silver," he says, and part of John wants to be angry - honestly, _Mister Silver_? - but the rest of him only notices the strain in Flint's voice, wonders, how far, how far back - and he can answer his own question on that, but. "Thank you for your concern, but I - " 

There's a moment where he - wavers. His posture shifts, his head turns in an odd fashion, one hand shooting out to catch himself on the edge of the desk - it's slight, barely noticeable, could be excused, the hand just motion, the rest of it imagined - but he looks up, meets John's eyes, and maybe it happens too quickly for him to hide the fear or maybe he wants John to see it this time but to be honest, John isn't particularly concerned with the reasoning. Not now. "You need to lie down," he says, and keeping the shake out of his own voice is a struggle, but he manages. He thinks he manages. Flint nods instead of trying to argue further, at least, so. 

He lets John take his coat, lets John hold the bed steady, but removes his own boots once he's sat down; John's got the heavy woolen blanket in hand already, and once Flint's settled John drapes it over him, making sure it covers his feet, tucking the edges up under the thin pad to keep out any drafts. He smooths the blanket over Flint's chest when he's satisfied, lets his hand linger; Flint watches, eyes quiet, and perhaps, John thinks, perhaps he shouldn't - but. He wants to. He leans in and kisses Flint's forehead, gentle and slow, doesn't miss the quick sigh Flint lets out. "Please try to rest," he says. "If I haven't seen you by six bells, I'm going to come and check on you." 

"All right," Flint says; then, softer, "Thank you." 

John leans in to kiss him again - the first one had seemed well-received, so. "Sleep, now," he says, and Flint smiles up at him before he goes, and it's enough - for now, it's enough. 

*

John isn't expecting Flint to appear in the morning, isn't surprised when he doesn't; he has to admit, however, that entering the cabin to find Flint exactly where he'd left him is - a bit concerning. He looks like he's sleeping; John knows better, though, lets his leg announce his arrival as he makes his way to the bed. "How are you?" he says softly, and Flint's eyes drag open. 

He's - not well. He doesn't have to answer for John to see it; the hot glaze over his face, the pale cast to his skin announces it without him having to speak. John knows what he'll find, but brushes a hand across Flint's forehead anyway; it nearly burns to touch. 

"I'm getting Howell," he says, and Flint doesn't argue. 

He finds Howell almost immediately - thank God - sat in the mess, sets a hand on his shoulder. Howell looks up and if John hadn't been sure it was written all across his face before - well. Howell follows him silently to Flint's cabin, holds his tongue until John's got the door shut - then says, "Jesus." 

"Good morning, Doctor," Flint says, and John thinks his heart might climb directly up his throat. Flint's voice is thin, unsteady, and it sets John's head to screaming, his whole body tensing with the wrongness of it. He's never heard Flint like that before, he never wants to again, it's - he manages to stop himself from moving to Flint's side, but he must give some indication he'd considered it - Flint's eyes meet his, just for a moment. John stays where he is. 

To his credit, Howell works quickly; looks Flint over, presses two fingers briefly against his wrist, runs down a list of ailments, Flint nodding to confirm - chills, headache and dizziness, restlessness, muscle pains. Since the brig, he claims, and though John isn't entirely certain it's the truth, it seems a good enough explanation to Howell. "I'd noticed a few more complaints than usual from the men," Howell says, "But I'd hoped - damn. Their physician's logs will confirm, I suspect." He pauses, like he's afraid Flint won't enjoy hearing the next bit. "I don't - Captain, you know I'll be forced to recommend we - " 

"I have even less of an interest in being the crew that brings fever to Nassau than you do, Doctor," Flint says. "We'll drop anchor somewhere nearby until you're confident we won't pose a threat. Mister Silver, if you'd assist in selecting a suitable beach?" John nods, and he - perhaps he's imagining it, perhaps now's not the time, but just for a second, he could swear Flint smiles at him. 

Howell retreats on a promise to be available if he's needed, a promise that John suspects is aimed more at him than at Flint. John sees him out, bolts the door behind him, turns back; Flint is watching him, which isn't anything new, but something about it sends uncertainty crawling through John's gut. He leans back against the door, takes a careful breath.

"How can I help?" 

"You don't have to," Flint says. "You've already done more than enough." His voice is softer, now, but not in the gentle way that John likes, has grown more used to than he'd realized - even the few words he'd exchanged with Howell had taxed him. 

He wants to move closer, wants to touch Flint, but he's also - suddenly, sharply aware that even this, just being here, just talking to Flint like this, is hard-won; that it's fragile, that at any moment Flint might tell him he's overstepped, that he should leave, and John - isn't sure he could stand it, having to leave him. Not now. "Let's say I wanted to," he says, anyway. 

"I need to inform the men," Flint says, like John hadn't spoken at all, and for a second all John can do is blink at him - then Flint is shifting, sitting up, and John's at his side before he even realizes he's moving, three quick steps across the cabin that he doesn't notice or think about until he's already taken them. 

"Let me," he says - Flint gives him a look, and John just barely stops himself from laughing. "You're going on deck like this?" he says, and as soon as he hears it he knows it was wrong - Flint's eyes darken, and he wants to take it back, wants to say he didn't mean - but he did mean, he meant it exactly like that. He's right, and Flint fucking well knows it. 

"It's my fucking ship," Flint says, and, well. 

"Nobody's saying it's not." He hands Flint his boots - certainly not as a show of support, he is in no way supporting this - only because he's half scared Flint might topple over if he reaches for them himself. "But I am their quartermaster. This may be your ship, but those are my men out there sailing her. They follow you, but they chose me. And it's my responsibility to - " 

"It is my responsibility to lead," Flint says - his voice firm in a way John's heard often, but rarely directed at him, firm in a way that makes clear Flint will tolerate no argument. "A change like this - they will have questions. Suspicions. Fears that I could allay, even temporarily, by delivering the message myself." 

"I can handle it, let me - " 

"I need to do this." He holds John's gaze, and John thinks - maybe. There's something in Flint's eyes he recognizes, past the haze the fever's begun to cast over him - something he doesn't want to fight. Something he wouldn't want fought, if it were him. He doesn't protest as Flint stands, heads for the door - but he does stay close. Just in case. 

Flint makes it to the quarterdeck for just over an hour, and John knows he shouldn't be surprised, but. On deck, he is impeccable; steady and quietly confident, announcing their stop and the reasoning behind it - the men must have noticed, expected it, known that some of their number were beginning to fall ill - but John doubts any of them would number their captain among them just yet. Hell, he barely believes it himself, and he'd been in Flint's cabin this morning, he'd found him in the belly of the ship last night. 

John follows when Flint retreats to his cabin; he isn't entirely sure he'll be welcome, but he also isn't entirely sure he cares. Flint doesn't stop him, though he must hear him, and as far as John's concerned that's welcome enough. He shuts and bolts the door behind them. "Are you all right?" 

Flint's stopped a few steps into the cabin, one hand on the table that holds his maps. "I just need to sit down." 

He's grasping the table so tightly his knuckles are going white, and John can't - bear it, can't stop himself - he comes up behind Flint slowly, lays a tentative hand on his shoulder. "James - " 

"I told you I don't need your help," Flint says - it's harsh, but lacks the bite that says he means it, that says not to push him farther, and rather than remove his hand John lets it slip to curve around the point of Flint's shoulder, the faintest beginnings of a caress. "I can take care of myself." 

"I know you can," he says, and he just - hopes Flint will hear it the way he means it, won't take it as pitying or condescending or - he doesn't know, anything, anything other than the genuine concern it is. "But you don't - have to." Flint huffs out a sharp, short laugh, and John steps closer, bringing his other hand up to Flint's back; he can feel the tension humming through Flint's muscles, the strain it's taking to keep himself upright, and _please_ , John thinks, _please, will you just let me -_ "Let me help."

Flint is quiet for what seems like a long time. John studies the gentle curve of his neck, pale skin and a scattering of freckles spread up from his shoulders, doesn't lean into him, doesn't rest his head against Flint's broad back - though for a moment, he wants to. "Please," he says, soft, and he can feel it - the minute dip of Flint's shoulder under his hands, the way his body curves, relaxes, folding in on itself - he can feel it when Flint gives in. A surrender, but also a victory, and he skims his hand down Flint's back, lets his arm slip around Flint's waist. 

He's breathing harsh and quick by the time John gets him over to the bed, gets him sat down; it's only a few steps but he leans more heavily on John with each one, and John half wonders how much damage Flint's done to himself, how much John's let him do - but he can't, he can't think about that yet, forces himself to focus on the more practical matters at hand - Flint's coat, his boots, the heavy belt slung low on his waist. "I could get used to this," Flint murmurs, as John spreads the blanket over him, and John laughs - half because Flint said it in the first place, and half because he's fighting the same thought. 

"I'll make a list of nearby beaches," he says. "You should rest, I'll let you know when I've - " 

"Just go ahead and pick one," Flint says. "The charts you need should be - " He waves a hand toward his desk, doesn't bother finishing. His eyes are already slipping closed. John wonders if he would've said the same thing under other circumstances, but it's not worth pursuing now. 

"I'll take care of it," he says, and does; sits at Flint's desk, listens to Flint's breathing slowing, softening, while John checks the maps, their course, the weather charts. It's all a bit of a mystery to him, still, though less so than he's expecting it to be; perhaps some of poor DeGroot's lessons have sunk in a bit. He selects a suitable-looking cay, relays the information to the deck, thinks about waking Flint to inform him as well - it's been barely an hour, and he knows Flint would want to know, but standing next to him, John can't quite bring himself to do it. Flint looks so - different. John's not sure he's ever seen him truly asleep, the lines on his face smoothed away, the tightness at the corners of his mouth gone. He shouldn't - especially not now, especially not with the creeping sense he's only seeing it because Flint is in no state to prevent him - but he likes it. 

"Sleep well," he whispers, allows himself a touch to Flint's shoulder, brief and light, before he lets himself out. 

*

The day passes quietly and without incident, and John - for the most part - leaves Flint alone. There's no reason to defend his decision, nobody to defend it to, but John does anyway - alone in his hammock that night, his men asleep around him, trying and failing not to listen for the creak of Flint's cabin door swinging open. They'd consulted with Howell, they're taking action; Flint is resting, he'd drank some water and the strong-smelling tea Howell had brought him. It's likely nothing Flint hasn't been through before - hell, it's nothing John himself hasn't been through before (the village, Flint gone, Madi's hand tight around his and every bone in his body bright and screaming). The causes might differ, but he's survived worse - they both have. John knows, he knows he shouldn't be worried, wouldn't want Flint to be worried about him if their situations were reversed - but. 

They're running fast tonight, the winds with them, the sea whispering smooth and light against the hull. They should reach the cay by morning. Flint is fine - will be fine. There's nothing to worry about, John thinks, and forces himself to at least close his eyes.

*

Perhaps, though - perhaps he had been right to worry. 

Daylight finds them approaching the cay from the north, the sun slanting across the deck and directly into John's eyes, and it will serve well enough as an excuse, a reason for rising so early - should he need one. By now the steps from his hammock to Flint's cabin are familiar enough he could take them without looking, without double-checking the placement of his leg; he moves as quietly as he can across the deck, slips through the door, shuts it gently behind him.

Flint doesn't open his eyes, doesn't shift, doesn't indicate in any way that he notices as John makes his way across the cabin. The jug of water on the table is empty when John checks it, but otherwise, there's no signs Flint had moved at all - the cabin is quiet, still, the light shifting along the wall as they tack into the little harbor, and he should - tell Flint they've arrived, at least, and he reaches out, clasps a hand on Flint's shoulder. 

Flint doesn't wake. 

"James?" he says, soft - repeats it, louder, and Flint's warm and pale and he won't fucking move and John's other hand flies up to Flint's chest, shaking, pressing, waiting for the gentle rise of it - slow, too fucking slow, and his fingers twist tight in the blanket, through to Flint's shirt. "James," he says again, firmer, and his voice does not, will not crack. "James, goddamn you - " 

He cannot - will not - he shouldn't be this far gone yet, John thinks, half wild, and he forces himself to breathe, forces himself to - Howell, he's got to get Howell, even though there's fuck-all the doctor will be able to do, not if - 

He's moving, though - Flint's moving, just a little, a twitch in his mouth, his eyes dragging open, and John doesn't stop himself leaning in, doesn't even try, a hand on Flint's cheek and his heart in his throat. "What can I do," he says, as Flint fixes on him - and he's so fucking far away, his eyes distant and faint and John's fingers tremble on his cheek. "What the fuck do I do, I can't - " 

"Get off the ship," Flint breathes, and John leans in closer, can barely hear him - "Get the men off the fucking ship, get off - " 

"No," John's saying, before he even registers _the men_. "No, I'm - " (Madi's hand on his, her voice hushed and comforting, how nice it had been to have her there even then, and he can't, he can't - ) "The men can camp on the beach but I will not leave you, do you understand? You don't have to do this alone." 

Flint hasn't looked away, his eyes bright and hot on John like he's a vision, a ghost, and John's stomach twists as he wonders what Flint's seeing - or who. "Why are you here," Flint says, his voice thin and raw, and his fingers twitch where they rest on top of the blanket - John hurries to wrap his own around them, breath catching at how Flint's hand curls into his. "Why are you doing this?" 

"Because you did it for me," he says, and it's the truth, at least part of it - he hasn't forgotten, and he doubts Flint could have either - the long weeks after they had taken his fucking leg, drifting in and out on the warship's long benches, Flint the first and last and only thing he remembers seeing. But Flint's looking at him and asking, _Why,_ and John can't, he can't lie to this man, not now. He remembers Flint's voice, low and steady, coming to him through a fog of pain and terror, and more - he remembers Flint sinking toward the bottom of the sea, a straining need to get to him, he remembers Flint sat alone on a cannon, rope twisting in his hands and a pull John couldn't bring himself to ignore. He remembers Flint's eyes, red-rimmed and lost that night in the cage, the night they'd buried the treasure, the night after they'd taken the warship. He thinks of a howling storm, and rain on a thatched roof, and _I don't have time for once._

His leg, Flint's having cared for him - it's part of the truth, but they both know it's not all of it. 

"You know why," he whispers - and it comes over him in a rush, a roaring, like something physical straining and filling and bursting deep in his chest. "James, you know why." 

It's familiar, but also not; bright and sure and clear, and he leans in, presses a kiss to Flint's too-warm forehead, rests there just an instant, skin to skin - and he can barely fucking breathe around it, but he can't remember why he might need to. "Take care of the men," Flint says - his voice is thinner, now, softer. "And come back." 

"I will," John says, kisses him again - his cheek, the corner of his mouth. "I swear. I'll handle this. Just hold on." 

He pulls away from Flint, leaves him there. Wakes and gathers the men he needs - Howell, DeGroot, Dooley serving in Billy's absence. His actions, his steps and his voice are smooth, confident, unhindered, even though they shouldn't be - his leg is aching but it's reaching him only faintly, a flash in the distance, so far outside his concerns it's not worth acknowledging. They are to drop anchor as near to the beach as possible, he informs them, and they will establish a camp; shelter, defenses, access to water. A sickbay for Howell, he adds, and minimal watch on board the ship, and Dooley gives him a look, which he ignores; their opinions, their thoughts on the matter are of no concern to him. He requires only their obedience. And he will have it. 

There are no questions; but then, he gives no time for them. Howell tails him back toward Flint's cabin, and for an instant John wants to stop him, wants to - but he controls it, knows that the doctor having another look at Flint would be a good idea, especially now. He stops himself just outside, lets Howell go in alone - he may not be able to bolt the door just yet, but he can at least guard it - he can see Flint, can just barely hear his voice, and for the moment it's enough. It seems as if both forever and no time at all pass before Howell returns, comes back out of the cabin with his shoulders hunched and his gaze meeting John's only quickly. 

"He's much worse," Howell says, and John half wants to strike him - that much is fucking obvious, he of all people doesn't need to be told that. "I'll need him moved to the beach as soon as possible, once we've set up - " 

"No," John says - and oh, then he recognizes it, this sensation bursting sharp and cold and savage through his body - he knows this, has encountered this beast before, though wearing another face. It is very much so the other side of the coin that had been his festering hatred for Dufresne, manifesting in the man's life snuffed out beneath the hard iron end that served as his leg; this fierce anger in his throat now is his love for Flint, born perhaps in a similar place, a nearby corner of his heart, but so, so different in its realization. "Absolutely not, you're not - how do we get him across the beach, like this? How do we get him in a fucking launch? How do you think the men will react to that, to their captain being carried like a - no. He'll never agree to it." 

He doesn't know how he could have missed this. Doesn't know how he could have ignored it, overlooked it, avoided putting a name on it - not when it's lived and grown and thrived inside him for so long. Not when it's fallen so neatly into place.

"With all due respect," Howell is saying, "he needs to be monitored - " 

"With all due respect, Doctor, the captain wishes to remain on his ship," John says, and knows immediately Howell will not argue further. "The men aren't to see him like this. Nobody sees him like this, do you understand me?" Howell nods, small and short, and John forces in a breath, forces himself to calm. He will, he reminds himself, most likely need Howell's assistance - no matter how much of a short-sighted fucking idiot he might think the man just now. "I will remain with him, and you will be signalled if needed. I suggest you return to your quarters and prepare for landfall." 

Howell retreats; to his sickbay, or not - John doesn't care. The men are beginning to move about on deck, DeGroot rousing his crew, the rigging beginning to fill. John watches for a moment, but all seems in order, as he wants it; they should be anchored within the hour, the ship clear within two. He steps back, into Flint's cabin, and shuts and bolts the door behind himself. 

It's quieter inside, and seems warmer than the last time he'd left. Flint is awake and watching him and John comes across the cabin slowly, pausing to drag the chair facing Flint's desk over to his bedside. "We should be dropping anchor shortly," he says, settling into it, stretching his leg out in front of him. 

"Where are we?" 

"Just north of Abaco Island. One of the larger cays you had marked." He forces himself to smile; it comes easier than he's expecting, once he gets started. "Your guidance, though unintended, was appreciated." 

Flint smiles back - small, but there. "You couldn't make sense of the reefs."

"I couldn't make sense of the reefs," he says, and Flint laughs. John leans forward, elbow coming up to rest on the edge of Flint's bed. "I'm going to draw up a minimal watch. Men who can be trusted. Dooley will oversee establishing a camp on the beach. I think we might be here a while." 

"You're not going to help?" Flint says, which isn't the part John had expected him to pick up on - though perhaps it should have been. He's not used to this, yet, this part of Flint that cares more for him than the bigger picture, this part more interested in what John is doing than, say, the delay to their journey, or how they'll contact the other half of their fleet - which isn't to say he doesn't like it, that every time Flint looks at him close and concerned doesn't send a curling tendril of warmth through him, and fuck, he has no idea how he missed this, how he didn't notice - 

"No," he says, and he's not sure who starts it - whether he reaches for Flint, or if Flint shifts the hand he's got laid on his chest, on top of the blankets - but they're touching, Flint's skin soft and warm and dry under John's palm, fingers spreading to let John's slip between them. "I'm going to stay with you." 

"You don't have to," Flint says, like he still thinks John needs to be told. "The men will need you, they'll - " 

"Fuck the men," John says. "You need me." 

"I'll manage," Flint says, his gaze dropping away, and John sighs. 

"Stop, will you?" he says. "I know you don't need my help. You don't need anyone's help, I understand. Everyone knows you can do this on your own, but do you want to? Truly?" Flint's eyes come up to meet his again, and John holds steady, his thumb rubbing long circles along the side of Flint's hand. "If you want me to leave, I will. But it is not what I want, and I'm not convinced it's what you want either, and if it isn't what either of us want then why are we even considering it?" 

"Because that isn't how this works," Flint says. "Not for you, and not for me, and certainly not for us."

"Well, why the fuck not?" 

It takes Flint a moment to reply. "You don't know what that means. To want that. To say you'll stay." 

"You still think I don't? I told you, I'm the only one who does, it is all I want - to be here, with you, whatever that might mean. What on earth are you still so concerned I'll see?" 

"It's not that."

"Then what the fuck is it? Why are you - " 

"Because you wouldn't say that," Flint says - low and raw and choked, like it's ripped out of him, and in some ways, John thinks, perhaps it is. "If you knew - if you truly knew what that meant. You wouldn't say that. You wouldn't want it. You know what I'm - capable of. What I've done. What I've done to you. You don't see it now, but you will, someday you will, and - " 

"Do you trust me?" 

Flint goes quiet, looking at him careful and close, and John - aches for him, Jesus, sharp and intense and fresh as though every time he should have noticed this about Flint, every time he should have seen the plea in Flint's eyes and hadn't, some part of him had saved it up to hand back to him, so he could feel them all at once. He tightens his grip on Flint's hand - he doesn't see a practical way of getting his arms around him.

Flint takes a breath, lets it out. "I want to," he says, soft. 

"He wanted to move you," John says; Flint frowns, but surprising him has never failed John so far, so. "Howell. To the beach. I told him he could go fuck himself, that you wanted to stay here. Not in exactly those words," he adds, and Flint doesn't smile, but the corner of his mouth curls upward, just the slightest bit. It's a start. "He'll have his hands full, anyway. There's a few among the men who have fallen ill. And I won't have you in his fucking sickbay with them." 

"Thank you," Flint says, and John knows his reasoning had been correct; they can't hope to hide this entirely from the men, but at least they can disguise it. The moment stretches, both of them quiet; Flint's gaze drops, and John follows it down, to their hands joined on Flint's chest, fingers tangled together. "Well," Flint says, low and a bit rough; "if you're going to shirk your duties on deck, you can at least make yourself useful in here." John glances up - Flint's smiling at him, only a little tentative. He nods toward the bookcase set against the far wall. 

"You want me to read to you?" 

"Unless you've got a better idea." 

"No," John says, smiles back. "I don't."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> SORRY. IM SORRY. NEXT PART ON FRIDAY OR SATURDAY DEPENDING ON WHETHER OR NOT I GET CALLED IN TO WORK. PLS FORGIVE ME I LOVE YOU.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> this part needs an Actual Legit Content Warning for vague-ish descriptions of bloodletting as a medical practice - blood, blade imagery, etc.

*

_"Get out of my presence; go, seek where you can, an answer to the question which you have put to me; presume not to appear in my presence, till you have obtained it; your head shall answer for your obedience."_

*

"Giafar was thunderstruck at so rigorous an order, uttered in so angry a tone; how could he have lost the favour of his master in a moment? He who, but a quarter of an hour before, had received the most flattering marks of his kindness; he who, I do believe, may have fallen asleep." 

"That's not what it says," Flint murmurs, though his eyes stay closed. 

John smiles. "How do you know? I have the book." 

"He, who was the companion of his amusements, no less than the president of his councils." Flint opens his eyes, finds his way slowly to John's face. "It's a nice passage." 

"Well I'm not sure why I'm wasting my time reading it to you, since you already seem to be quite well acquainted." 

"Time well wasted," Flint says, but the levity in his voice feels a bit forced, his smile strained at the edges, and John squeezes his hand, brief and tight and reassuring. "It's been quiet out there for a while," he says. "How many days' worth of rum do you think your men have already consumed?" 

"Mister DeGroot will have them well enough in hand," John says, trusting Flint will understand his meaning in choosing to ignore _your men_ \- and it takes a few seconds, but Flint relaxes a little, his eyes slipping closed again, so. "Christ, I hate seeing you like this," he whispers - and he shouldn't, he knows he shouldn't, it just slips out, he just - the tired lines on Flint's face, too sharp in the failing sunlight, the faint but ever-present tension in his hand under John's. He can't help himself.

"Weak?" Flint says. 

"Hurting." Flint's forehead creases, and John wants to - "God, no, not weak, never weak - you're anything but that. I just - I wish there was something more I could do." 

Flint is quiet, then; long enough John closes the book, sets it gently aside. He's not sure he'll be able to bring himself to let go of Flint's hand, even for a few moments, but somehow he manages, gets himself up, collects the empty water jug. Outside the cabin door, the ship is as near to silent as she ever gets; John's one-man watch in the crow's nest, faint echoes of the crew drifting across the water from the beach, but effectively, they're alone. Someone - probably Howell - has left a bucket of water outside the door, along with a basket, fruit and dried meat from the Maroons and a small packet. John sets them inside, then makes his way across to the galley to fill the jug as well before returning. Howell's packet is labeled _Cinchona_ ; on the back he's written _half in 1c. water for chills and pain_. Simple enough, John thinks. 

"Do you think you can eat something?" he says, over his shoulder. "Doctor Howell's left us some gifts." 

"Not sure that's wise," Flint says, and John turns to look at him; he's curled on his side, fingers clenched on the edge of the bed, and John drops the apple he's holding, gathers up Howell's packet and a tin cup instead. 

"Sit up," he says, sets the cup down to help Flint, both hands under his shoulders; he lifts himself to sit in the space Flint's left open, tugs Flint gently back to lean against him. "Here, you've got to drink this." 

"What is it?" 

"I don't know," John says, honest. "Howell left it. It should help." Flint laughs, short and doubtful, but takes the cup from him as John wraps an arm around his waist. 

He coughs a bit, struggles through it, but eventually hands the cup back to John empty; John takes it, moves to stand, but Flint says, "Wait." 

"Hmm?" 

"Would you," Flint says, and stops; John kisses the curve of his neck. "Would you lay with me for a while, if you don't mind," he says, all in a rush, and John can't hold back a laugh. "You don't have to," Flint adds, and John smiles against his skin, kisses him again. 

"Of course I wouldn't mind," he says, "I'd love to," but he pauses; his leg will pose a problem, keep him either with his back to Flint or trapped against the wall of the cabin, and just now, neither seems an acceptable option. "But I believe this bed was intended for one," he says, carefully - he can't quite bring himself to say any of that, not even to Flint, not even now. 

"And this ship was intended for the English," Flint says, and John laughs again, softer. 

"Fair enough." He takes a breath, leans his forehead against Flint's shoulder. "I'm not sure I can," he says, forces it out, even though part of him still tries to hold it back, tries to tell him he shouldn't admit to it, shouldn't acknowledge it. The very least Flint deserves is the truth. "I don't - see how it'll work. With my leg. I'm afraid I'll hurt you if I leave it on, and if I take it off, I can't - " 

"Never mind," Flint says, and starts to move away from him, and - all at once, John's mind is made up.

"No," he says, pulls Flint back, kisses his neck once more, firm and sure. "I want to. Just give me a minute." He lets go of Flint, stands; collects the jug of water, the apple, the remains of Howell's little packet, stacks them on the chair and drags it into reach before he sits again on the edge of Flint's bed to remove his prosthesis. He's not sure it's a brilliant idea, hopes nothing will happen that requires him being able to move quickly - but something tells him denying Flint now would be even worse, so.

It's never easy, getting the thing off; he has to brace himself, is never quite able to keep down the hiss of pain as the leather peels from his skin, as the cool air hits it. The wound does seem to be healing a bit - beginning to, at least. Finally more good days than bad. Once it's off, he - hesitates; Flint's seen it before, John knows he has, but it's - it's his fucking leg and it still shocks even him, a little, every time. Still makes him think he shouldn't, he can't, that nobody could ever possibly look at him and - he has limitations now; he can't deny them, though he can make an effort to spare as little thought to them as possible. Others, he assumes, will spend enough time on the subject for themselves and him both. 

But not Flint - never Flint. His hand is on John's shoulder, tugging gently, and for a second, John's eyes slip closed. 

"Move over," he says, and perhaps it comes out sounding a bit rough, but Flint does; shifts enough to let John settle on his back, stays sat up until John reaches for him, draws him down again. It works - John's not expecting it to, but it works - Flint's head resting low on his chest, his knees tucked into the gap below John's stump, John's arm around his shoulders. He's soft and close and delightfully heavy against John's side and Christ, John isn't sure why they didn't try this sooner. "Comfortable?" he murmurs, and Flint nods. 

"Thank you." 

John smiles, presses a kiss to the top of Flint's head. "I should be thanking you." 

Flint snorts. "Because I'm doing so much for you?" 

"Yes," John says, simply. Flint's reply is an arm draped over John's waist, his face turning to press into John's chest, breath warm through his shirt. It's a while before Flint falls asleep again, his body relaxing, his hand going limp where it rests on John's hip, but they don't speak further; they don't need to. 

*  
  
_My love's a noble madness,_  
_Which shows the cause deserved it. Moderate sorrow_  
_Fits vulgar love, and for a vulgar man:_  
_But I have loved with such transcendent passion,_  
_I soared, at first, quite out of reason's view,_  
_And now am lost above it._  
  
*

John clears one end of the narrow window seat along the back wall of the cabin - books, maps, a heavy globe, an assortment of apparently broken lanterns, stacks them all in a corner against Flint's bookcase, resolves to remind the man when he's feeling better that he doesn't have to save every last bit of junk he pulls off a prize. He spreads a blanket along it, tucks a pillow against the wall, leaves a few books within reach - spares a wistful thought for the comfortably padded seats they'd had on the warship, but Flint needs air, comfort be damned. 

"Come on," he says when he's ready, coming back to Flint's bedside. "Let's get you up. Time for a change of scenery. Promise you'll like it." Flint grumbles, but only until they're settled, John seated in the corner, Flint between his legs, laid back against his chest. "Told you," he says, smiling as Flint turns his face toward the opened window, the fresh breeze coming from outside. "Would you like… Augustine, your dear friend Cervantes, or… Dryden?" 

"Dryden?" 

" _The World Well Lost._ It's a play. English - Marc Antony and Cleopatra. I think you pulled it off that last prize." 

Flint shrugs, lets his head fall back against John's shoulder. "I'll hold it, if you like," he says, as John reaches around him to open the book across their laps; what he means is his neck hurts, and if he holds the book John has his hands free, and for a moment John thinks about making him work for it. 

Instead, he smiles, warm and fond - lets himself feel it, lets it wrap around him - and passes the book to Flint. "Shift up a bit," he says, "I can't reach," and Flint moves as requested - arches up and back, closer, and John's fingers slip along the line of his shoulders, searching for the edges of it, the transition between smooth skin and tense, pained muscle. Flint sighs when he finds it, pushing up into John's hands, and John brushes a kiss to his temple. 

They make it through the first act and into the second before John realizes Flint's fallen asleep. He's soft under John's hands, breathing slow and steady, the book drooping in his grip; John reaches to take it, before Flint drops it and startles himself. "Fall down, as she would do, before his feet; lie in his way, and stop the paths of death: tell him, this god is not invulnerable; that absent Cleopatra bleeds in him," he finishes, in a whisper, and sets the book aside. He should, he knows, wake Flint; get him back to bed, get him laid down comfortably, use the opportunity to retrieve more water and anything Howell might have left for them. But perhaps, he thinks - perhaps there's no harm in them staying here a little while longer. He's not sure he has it in him to end this just yet.

*  
  
_You are too sensible already_  
_Of what you've done, too conscious of your failings;_  
_And, like a scorpion, whipt by others first_  
_To fury, sting yourself in mad revenge._  
_I would bring balm, and pour it in your wounds,_  
_Cure your distempered mind, and heal your fortunes._  
  
*

"They took him," Flint says, later, and John wakes fully; Flint had never fallen back asleep after John had moved them again to the bed, and John's been half-listening for a while now, dozing while Flint mumbles to himself about the ship and Teach and Woodes Rogers. He'd thought, perhaps, heading down that road, something like this might come up. John's got one arm around him already, Flint's head pillowed on his shoulder; he rolls to his side, his other hand coming up to rest on Flint's hip, letting Flint curl into him. "John, they - " 

"I know," he says, as Flint tucks himself close, his mouth against John's throat, a knee hooked over John's calf. "I know, I'm sorry. You can tell me." 

"They took him," Flint says again; he's breathing fast and short and shallow and his skin is hot and damp under John's hands. "They took him and I couldn't - I couldn't say goodbye, I couldn't save him, I let them, they - " 

"I know," John whispers into the gaps between Flint's words, the spaces where his voice catches and twists and turns into just sounds. "Oh, James, I know, and I'm so sorry. I'm so sorry you lost him." 

"I let him go," Flint chokes, and John slips his hand around Flint's waist, draws him in. "I let him, I let them take him, I should have gone back for him, I'm sorry - " 

"Shh. Oh, Christ, James. It's all right, shh." If he could open his own chest and let Flint crawl inside, he would; if he could break into Bethlem and emerge with Thomas Hamilton, if he could turn back the clock and kill Sir Alfred himself before any of it ever happened - anything, he'd do anything to ease the ache in Flint's voice. To take this guilt from him, lift it from his shoulders like something physical, something that could be shed and cast aside. 

"I should have gone back," Flint says, "I'm sorry, I'm sorry," and John kisses his head, tries to ignore the quick, harsh sound it drags out of him. 

"It wasn't your fault," he says, and Flint laughs - there's no humor in it. "It wasn't," John says again, firmer. "There's nothing more you could have done. You did exactly as you were supposed to." 

"I left him there," Flint says, "I left him, I - " 

"He told you to," John says, and Flint's still murmuring under him, low and ragged; he pulls back, takes Flint's face in his hands, forces him to look up. "You looked after Miranda. It's all you could have done, and you did it admirably. You had ten years together, do you remember that? You've done well, James, and if he were here, he'd tell you the same." Even as he says it, he's not entirely certain he believes it, even less certain Flint will; he's quieted, but his eyes stay on John, searching. It might not be the truth - but perhaps it's what Flint needs to hear. Perhaps that's the part that matters. "You did all you could." 

"I'm sorry," Flint whispers, and John kisses him again, gently.

"It's all right," he says, and Flint sighs, eyes slipping closed, like that's what he'd been waiting for. John pulls him closer, curls around him, Flint's head on his shoulder, his knee caught between John's thighs. He shivers under John's hands. John tucks the blanket tighter around his neck, like it'll help.

*  
  
_Why was I framed with this plain, honest heart,_  
_Which knows not to disguise its griefs and weakness,_  
_But bears its workings outward to the world?_  
  
*

This is the worst of it - it must be. 

Flint's head heavy on John's chest, his breath loud and rough and labored. John had woken again to him shaking, can't get him to stop - they're skin to skin, under every blanket and coat and bit of cloth John can drape across them, and Flint says he's cold but he burns like fire against John, claws at him like it's John who's doing this, who's draining him from the inside out. "I'm here," John whispers into his hair, holds tight as Flint's body strains against itself, lets Flint moan and fight and twist against him. "I'm here, I've got you, stay with me." 

"John," Flint says, and just for a moment his voice is clear - clear and tight and terrified, and John presses a kiss to his forehead, tucks his cheek against Flint's hair. Howell had said to expect this, to expect the fever to peak and ebb and change; John wishes he could have been a bit more specific. 

"I know," he says, his hand trailing long and slow and steady along Flint's arm, the curve of his shoulder to the point of his elbow. "I know, I'm so sorry." 

"Don't go." Flint's fingers curl helplessly against his chest, and John slips his hand down Flint's arm to cover them, keep him close. 

"I won't. I'm not going anywhere, I promise, I'm right here with you." 

"Don't let them," Flint whispers into the hollow of his throat, and John whispers back _Never, never,_ his arm tight around Flint's shoulders, mouth open against Flint's hot skin. "Don't let them - " 

"They can't," John says, low and soothing. "They can't, love, they can't get near us, we're safe. We've made sure of that, all right? If they try, we'll send them to the bottom of the fucking sea." His hand sweeps slow ovals over Flint's back, the spread of his shoulders to the gentle dip of his waist, and Flint moans, presses closer. "We're safe, James. You're safe, I promise." 

"Don't go," he says, and his body is still tense and trembling in John's arms but his voice is dropping off again, softening, coming from farther away. John kisses him again, gentle, forces himself to breathe steady and even and calm - at least, he thinks, at least if he can get Flint to sleep, Flint will be spared some of it. It's a burden that John, despite himself, would be quite happy to carry alone - to carry for him, if only he could. 

*  
  
_But I am made a shallow-forded stream,_  
_Seen to the bottom: all my clearness scorned,_  
_And all my faults exposed._  
  
*

"You're out of your fucking mind." 

"He's not improving," Howell says, his gaze on the deck instead of John's face and John is glad for it - he hates that Howell is in his sight at all, in this moment. "We've got to try something, and if he won't come off the ship - " 

"You're not fucking - cutting him open," John says, and part of him is aware it comes out sounding perhaps a bit - intense - but the rest of him doesn't care. The rest of him wants to take Howell by the neck, throw his little fucking case overboard, perhaps the doctor himself after it. 

"Our other option is he dies," Howell says, and John feels his throat close. "He hasn't woken in over a day. I don't want to put him through it either, but right now, we don't have another choice." 

John only feels sicker once they're inside; Flint is pale and still and doesn't react to John taking his hand, to the soft clinking of Howell opening his case on the table. _Come back,_ he thinks, desperate; _come back to me, please don't leave me,_ and behind him Howell is saying "You've got to make sure he stays still," and John - can't look, he doesn't want to know, he just wants Flint to fucking wake up - he leans over Flint, one arm braced across his chest. 

"I'm sorry," he whispers, and he can hear Howell moving behind him - tries not to think about what he's doing, a sharp edge against Flint's paper-thin skin - which barely-familiar freckles in the crook of Flint's elbow might be lost to scars. There's a quiet sort of grinding behind him, metal on metal, and then Flint's face twists - lips parted, mouth turned down, forehead wrinkling and John's breathing, he's breathing, he's - "It's all right, he's trying to help," and he's not entirely sure if he's speaking to Flint, or to himself. He's barely balanced, his good knee straining and most of his weight spread across Flint's chest, but he lets his free hand come up anyway, palm against Flint's cheek. He doesn't know if it helps, doesn't know if Flint's reachable right now, not sure if the touch even registers on anything approaching a conscious level - but Flint turns into it, and it isn't just for him anyway, so. 

"Keep him still," Howell snaps, as Flint moans sharp and sudden, arching off the bed - John turns, glances over his shoulder to reply, and oh, that's a mistake - he's seen Flint's blood before, seen him hurt and torn open, seen him up and fighting with wounds that would have most men on the ground, begging for death - it's just, there's just so fucking _much_ of it, deep red and welling from Flint's arm, the wooden dish Howell holds nearly full already - 

"You're hurting him," he says, instead of _I'm trying_ , and Howell shoots him a look. 

"And it's going to hurt more if you don't - " 

"John," Flint says, and it's as though Howell and his fucking tools and the cabin around them, the goddamn ship and the sea beneath it, everything except him vanishes from John's world. His thumb at the corner of Flint's mouth, Flint's chest heaving under his arm, deep quick frantic breaths. 

"Easy," John says, "easy, I'm here," and Flint's eyes crack open. 

"What's - " 

He's twisting, shifting, trying to see around John and John leans on him heavier, trembling fingers stroking slow and hopefully calming along Flint's jaw. "Look at me," he says, and Flint's eyes snap to his - "don't look at him, look at me," and Flint is fixed on him, gaze heavy and clinging, and John fights hard against the urge to kiss him. "Good," he whispers, and Flint breathes out, long and slow and shaking.

"Almost finished," Howell says, but John ignores him - curls his other hand around the point of Flint's shoulder, digs his fingers into tensed muscle, hard enough Flint might be able to feel it over what Howell's doing. 

"Be still," he says, "be still," and Flint moans again, softer, but relaxes under John's arm. He forces a smile, hopes Flint will understand the praise it's intended as. Behind him, Howell is moving, setting something down on the table, and John hears a rustle of cloth; he strokes through Flint's beard, fingers gentle on his chin, along his cheek, the soft patch behind his ear. He doesn't want to look, isn't sure he should, isn't sure how Flint will take the contact being broken - he chances a quick glance over his shoulder, just enough to see Howell securing the end of a long bandage around Flint's arm. By the time he turns back, Flint's eyes have slipped closed again; perhaps for the best. 

He forces himself to pull away from Flint as Howell gathers his things, follows the doctor to the door; he intends only to shut him out, but Howell stops just outside, glances up at John like he's got something to say. John raises an eyebrow at him. 

"I'm not going to say anything," Howell says, hesitant. "It doesn't matter to me. But I - the men are beginning to talk. There's - rumors spreading. About what's going on out here. I thought you should know." 

For a second, John thinks about asking him what he means; he thinks about playing stupid, asking him what exactly doesn't matter, but he's too aware of the bowl of Flint's blood the other man carries - he just wants him the fuck off his ship. "Let them fucking talk."

Howell sighs. "He'll probably sleep the rest of the day," he says. "Make sure he gets some water, and if he bleeds through the bandage, please send up a signal." 

"Thank you," John says, shortly, and shifts his weight back; the message is clear. Howell turns, and goes. 

*  
  
_We were so closed within each other's breasts,_  
_The rivets were not found, that joined us first._  
  
*

That night, they turn a corner. 

Flint sleeps in John's arms; still deep and unshakeable, but in a different way than the past few days. He feels more present, more relaxed, more like he's actually resting, and John - doesn't want to hope, is almost afraid to, but - perhaps, he lets himself think, watching shadows shift on the wall as the moon tracks across the sky, perhaps this is the end of it. He could be imagining it, but it seems like with every moment Flint breathes easier. Like they both do. 

He sends John to spend the day on the beach the next time he wakes, when John passes on Howell's words about the men; there are practical matters to discuss, duties he's got to consider, now that they've missed their rendezvous with Teach, now that it seems they might be able to move on in the near future - but it's also time he made an appearance. Past time, and they both know it. It's harder than he expects, leaving Flint's cabin, climbing down the side of the ship to the launch; part of it's his leg, muscles he hasn't really used in days protesting him calling upon them, but part of it - most of it - is Flint. It feels wrong to be apart from him, to be torn from him like this, to have that much sand and sea and sky between them. He feels unsteady on land, after so many days spent on board the ship. He sits with the men, eats with them, laughs at their stories - and he'd missed them, truly, but part of him is undeniably elsewhere, across the bay, still tucked safe and warm in Flint's bed, at his side. Where he belongs, he can't help thinking, and something inside him twists happily at the acknowledgement. 

The trip back across the bay seems to take forever, the Walrus looming slowly, silently closer as the launch cuts through the water. In the cabin, he finds Flint sat at his desk, which is a surprise - though a pleasant one. "You're feeling better," he says, and Flint smiles - he's terrifyingly pale, still, and his face is thinner than it should be, but there's a warmth, a light in his eyes John hasn't seen in days. 

"Much," Flint says. He tracks John as he crosses the cabin, comes to sit on the desk next to the map Flint has spread out in front of him. "How are the men?" 

"Drunk," John says, and Flint laughs. "Bored. They did seem happy to see me, though most were more interested in when we'd be underway again." 

"I should think in the next few days, once Howell decides we're clear." 

"I'll let them know in the morning," John says. He pauses; it looks as though Flint had been busy, and John half thinks perhaps he should leave him to it - but. "It's a nice night," he says, instead. "If you'd - if you're up to it, I'm sure Howell would be pleased you'd got some air." 

"Well," Flint says, and smiles. "Let's not miss a chance to please Doctor Howell." 

They make their way out on deck together, Flint's hand on John's shoulder, John's arm slung low around his waist. Not for support - he's doing well enough on his own, and it's not like John has much to provide in the way of stability, in any case - but just for the contact. It's late, the beach mostly quiet; there's a few voices still coming across the bay toward them, the faint glow from a campfire, and somewhere above them Howard sits in the rigging, looking out across the sea - but for the most part, they're alone. Flint steadies himself on the rail, turns his face toward the sky. "Good?" John murmurs, and Flint smiles in reply. His hand slips from John's shoulder to settle at his hip, and John leans into him. He can't help watching Flint, doesn't even try to stop himself studying the lines of his profile, the sharp strong cut of his jaw. He's missed seeing Flint like this - quiet, steady, confident. He's missed this so fucking much. 

"I never could make much sense of it," he says eventually, and Flint turns to him. "The stars. Mister DeGroot keeps trying to teach me, but I'm afraid I'm even more hopeless at celestial navigation than I am at the type you do with maps and charts." 

"It isn't that complicated." 

"Maybe not for you," John says, and Flint grins. 

"Here," he says, "look," and he takes John's hand from the railing into his own, points him toward a star brighter than most, hanging perhaps twenty degrees above the horizon. "Polaris," he says, his voice low and close to John's ear. "The North Star. As long as you're in the northern half of the sea, you'll be able to find it, and at least know your heading." 

"How do you find it?" 

Flint draws their hands gently across the sky, a straight line to a pair of nearby stars - then around, until John makes out the shape of a cup with a long handle. "The edge of the dipper points toward it," Flint says, letting him go. "It's always due north. The rest of the sky will change, but Polaris is fixed. Constant. Reliable." 

"Well that's certainly useful," John says. "What else is up there?" 

"In terms of navigation?" 

"No," John says. "Just - I want to see what you're seeing." 

Flint huffs out a soft laugh. "You see it." 

"Not like you do." 

Flint takes his hand again, slowly. "Perseus," he says, pointing John upward, toward a bright U-shaped cluster. "The hero. Beheaded Medusa to save a princess." To the right, a rectangular shape with a point on the bottom. "Auriga, the charioteer. No horse or chariot, but two baby goats." 

John frowns. "Baby goats?" 

Flint points out two dimmer stars, halfway down one side of the rectangle. "The Greeks were an imaginative bunch." 

"Apparently," John says. He nudges Flint's hand further right, two stars paired together. "And those?"

Flint leans closer, sights along John's arm. "Gemini," he says. "The twins." He guides John gently through the three sets of two, their fingers tracing the imaginary lines connecting each bright point. 

"What's their story?" 

He feels more than hears Flint laugh. "What makes you think they've got one?" 

"Everything does," John says.

Flint is quiet for a moment. "The queen of Sparta had four children," he says eventually, and John tucks his head against Flint's shoulder, listening. "Two pairs of twins, a boy and a girl in each. One fathered by her husband, and one fathered by Zeus, or so the story goes." 

John grins. "Are you implying you doubt a claim of children fathered by the king of the gods?" 

"That's one way to put it," Flint says, and John laughs. "Anyway, the boys were inseparable, the best of friends, until one was killed - being by a mortal father, he was himself mortal. Zeus's son, inconsolable at the loss of his brother and wishing only to be reunited, went to beg his father to be allowed to die as well." Flint is quiet for a long moment; John settles more firmly against him, waits for him to find his way through it, whatever darkened tunnel in his mind he's found himself navigating - perhaps for the first time confident that Flint will come out the other side. 

His patience is still finite, though, confidence aside. "Then what happened?" he prompts, eventually.

Flint lets out a long breath. "Zeus took pity on them," he says. "Perhaps he was moved, perhaps he couldn't bear to see his own son in such pain. But he agreed. Half their time is spent in the underworld - apparently rejecting immortality cannot go unpunished, even if you are the son of a god." He points toward the sky, the motion pressing him closer against John's side. "But the rest of the time they spend up there. Together for eternity, either way." 

It takes John a few seconds to reply. "Doesn't sound like such a bad deal, to me," he says, and he means for it to come out lightly, he means it to be a joke - from the way Flint's arm tightens around him, he's not entirely sure he's hit the mark. 

"No, I suppose not." 

The silence that stretches between them is comfortable, easy, and John relaxes into it, breathes it in, lets it fill him. Flint is warm against him, the ship rolling gently beneath them, and they rock together with it, mindless, instinctive, steady. He's taken to it, the constant motion, the rhythm of it - more than he ever thought he would, or could, and he thinks of the solid beach beneath him earlier, how odd it had felt. How much simpler things seem here, now, Flint at his side and the Walrus under them and the men on the beach behind. How easy it would be to just stay here, like this, in this moment - no Nassau, no Teach, no war. Just the ship, the sea and the stars and them, and nothing else.

"There'll be questions," Flint says, after a while; there's a heaviness in his voice, like he doesn't want to say it, and John turns, thoughtless, to press a kiss to his shoulder. "About where we've been." 

"From Teach, or from our crew?" 

"Both." Flint takes a breath, lets it out slowly. "Any thoughts on what we should tell them?" 

"The truth," John says. "As little of it as we can get away with. We took a prize, the prize carried fever. Teach will accept it. And the men will accept what I tell them." 

"You think?" 

"I know." 

"When we reach Nassau - " 

John nudges him gently. "Let's worry about that when we reach Nassau," he says, and Flint nods, lets it go. John's fingers sketch meandering patterns across his back, waist to shoulder, tracing the edges of each muscle and bone as Flint's thumb rubs slow across the point of his hip. There'll be time for the war later, but this - this night is still for them. And John isn't ready to give it up just yet. 

*  
  
_CLEOPATRA. We make those fates ourselves._  
_ANTONY. Yes, we have made them; we have loved each other,_  
_Into our mutual ruin._  


*

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> you'll have to forgive me a few smallish historical inaccuracies in this part; bloodletting as medical therapy seems to have been temporarily out of fashion in the early 18th century, but i decided i needed it in my life more than i cared about howell being totally up to date on his practices, so here we are. also, the original production of dryden's _all for love (or, the world well lost)_ was in 1677; we're just going to pretend a printing could have made its way onto an english merchant by the early 1700s (i've quoted extensively and borrowed my title from [this version](http://www.gutenberg.org/cache/epub/2062/pg2062-images.html), and used the subtitle because it's prettier….sue me). also also, i used the 1792 chavis/cazotte translation of (what they called) _arabian tales_ , found [here](http://www.wollamshram.ca/1001/Arabian_Tales/at_Main.htm); galland's 1704-1717 french translation would be more historically plausible, but i don't speak french and we all know better than to trust google, so.


End file.
